


Let’s Get Physical

by grump_ass



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, College AU, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, HOH Characters, Hockey AU, Jewish Bucky Barnes, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Verbal Abuse, everything i know about hockey comes from omgcp, hi my name’s levi and i never learned how to tag, my pal and i made this au and now i present my contribution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-05-17 22:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grump_ass/pseuds/grump_ass
Summary: “So,” he continues, “You like parties?”“I mean,” James drawls, taking another sip, “Yeah, I do. I usually spend the first half thinking about all the shit I should probably be working on instead, but after a minute I’m good, y’know.”“After you’ve gotten drunk,” Steve guesses.“After I’ve gotten drunk,” James confirms.“And a little high.”“And after I’ve made out with some random guy I’ll never see again,” James says before he can think better of it.———In which Steve and Bucky play for rival college hockey teams. All it takes is some wacky hijinks, an aggressive make out session on a bathroom floor, a rant or two about trans athletes, and a few nasty checks for shit to get physical. **ON HIATUS (PROBABLY UNTIL ENDGAME COMES OUT AND I'M BACK IN MY FEELINGS TBH)**





	1. Ice, Ice, Baby

It may be corny. Cheesy. Dumb as hell, whatever you wanna call it. But when he’s on the ice, Steve feels complete. Like he’s his best self. It’s as if his past as the scrawny kid from Brooklyn with a short man’s complex and a hearing aid disappear, and in its wake is Captain Rogers of the Iron Men Hockey Team. The ice feels like home; reminds him of his mom taking him ice skating on her days off, spending after school on the rink, practicing and practicing until it was time to close and they had to send him home.

That being said, nostalgia and pride have to get benched when there’s a tie in the game and they have one minute left to win it. Especially if Steve is the one with the puck.

Which. Coincidentally. He is.

“ROGERS,” Tony screams from the goal, blood streaming from his nose, “MOVE YOUR ASS.”

Steve gets the puck in and slides for the opposing team’s goalie. He pretends that the black jerseys swirling around him are X’s, with him being an O, and he can clearly see a play through; one guy goes left, so Steve goes left, then fakes a right. He moves just enough to dodge an elbow to the shoulder and check the guy into the glass wall. As he runs through the playthrough, he measures his breath. The goal is right there, and if he’s gonna make the shot he’s gotta do it now, with about a half a minute left.

He looks around him, and can clearly see that he’s getting surrounded. Sam cuts a line behind him, moving his feet back and forth as he tries to destabilize the others. He looks at Steve.

“DO IT,” Sam shouts before getting hit in the jaw.

Steve takes the shot, and it makes it in, barely missing the bottom of the diving goalie’s arm. The buzzer goes off, and Steve exhales.

Thank Fuck.

The crowds are losing it. Steve skates over to where Sam is splayed out on the ground.

“Need a hand?”

“It would be appreciated,” Sam groans, eyes shut.

With a chuckle, Steve takes his hand and pulls him onto his feet, keeping his other hand on his back until he’s stable. The rest of the team reaches them, Clint skating directly into Steve and knocking him back a ways.

“You did it,” Clint screams, loud enough that Steve’s hearing aid emits a high pitched screech that makes him wince.

“Sure did, bud,” Steve shouts back, slapping his back.

“Rogers, thank God,” Tony says, sliding over, “I thought you were gonna blow that.”

“Thanks, Tony. I appreciate your helpful and colorful swearing.”

“Shut up and shake hands,” Tony says, skating past him to where the other team waits.

The handshake proceeds without incident, although Steve is pretty sure that the guy he checked is glaring at him like he brutally murdered his family. Steve makes sure his hand is on top of the other guy’s hand when they shake.

“By the way; Parker is waiting for you,” Tony says after, “I thought he was gonna try to crawl over the wall for the bench.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet he was,” Steve chuckles, skating to the gate.

“Seriously. I wasn't joking. Coach had to actively push him back into the bleachers,” Tony insists, growing more annoyed when Steve laughs. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s kind of funny,” Sam says.

Peter is practically vibrating by the time Steve reaches him, his own Iron Men jersey about three sizes too big on him. When Steve gets within five feet of the gate, Peter is trying to get on the rink. Steve brings a hand up and gently pushes him back.

“Nope, don’t even think about it.”

“That was so cool, Mr. Rogers,” Peter explodes, waving his hands, “It was so close.”

“It sure was. But we pulled it off.”

“You did so great!”

“Thanks, bud.”

“It’s just- You had only thirty seconds left, and no one knew if you were gonna get it, but then you got around that one guy, and then you checked the other, and then Sam was zig zagging behind you,” Peter mimics Sam’s skating, “And then you shot it, and it almost got caught but like, you did it!”

“Yeah, you’re right, it was super close.”

“Just,” Peter throws his hands up, “AAAAAAH!”

“Yeah,” Steve raises his fist in the air and shakes it. “But we did it.”

“You did do it,” Peter agrees, beaming.

“I don’t want to be a buzzkill, but you did all your homework, right?”

“Of course,” Peter snorts.

“Just checking. We’re probably going out for dinner after this, and I can’t let you flunk out of middle school just because I let you gorge yourself on pizza.”

“We’re getting pizza?”

“Okay, actually, let me check.” Steve turns back to the group, “Guys. Pizza?”

“Pizza,” Clint calls back, giving a thumbs up.

Sam and Tony nod, then repeat the question to Scott and James, who nod back in agreement. Stephen shrugs his shoulders, which is about as much as they’re gonna get from him.

Peter lets out a whoop and hurries after the crowd currently vacating the arena.

“Wait outside the locker rooms,” Steve calls, “And tell your aunt we’re going to Jones’ Pizza.”

“Alright, let’s hurry up,” Sam says, “We still have that party after dinner.”

“Yeah, I know. We gotta have him back home before nine.”

“Yeah, I know. Rhodes.” Sam looks behind him. “You driving?”

“Yep,” he calls back.

“Nice. Let’s hurry up before Sharon starts wondering where we are.”

Steve leads the team into the locker rooms. The stench of sweat and equipment practically radiates from every corner of the room, and Steve makes a beeline for a solo shower. It’s the only one with a working door, but he usually gets first dibs on it. It’s better than skipping out on after-game festivities to drag his sweaty ass back to the dorms to shower and change in privacy like he did his first year.

His whole body doesn’t ache yet; it will in due time. He’s got a few tender spots up and down his ribs, and he’s pretty sure the punch he got to the cheek early in the game is gonna look really terrible in a few days time. But he’s gonna ignore that for now; right now he has to shower and take a twelve year old out for pizza and have him home before his bedtime.

He gets dressed quickly and heads back to the lockers, stepping aside so Tony can bustle past him. He heads outside, waving at the team before taking out his phone.

“Hey, mom,” he says into the end of the phone, scanning the hallway for Peter.

The kid is on the floor tucked into a corner, earbuds jammed in and music blaring while he rocks slowly back and forth. He opens his eyes just enough to spot Steve, and he waves. Steve waves back.

“Hey, sweetie. How are you?”

“I’m good. Did you watch the game?”

“Yes, I did! You did so well!”

“Thanks, mom.”

“Are you coming by soon?”

“Maybe later this week. When are you off?”

“I work this weekend, and then Monday-Tuesday, but I’m off for the next two days.”

“I’ll come by one of those days then. I’ll let you know when.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

“How’s work been,” Steve asks, snapping at Peter when James exits the locker room.

The boy locks eyes with him and gets up, letting Rhodes lead him out to the parking lot.

“-But Mary wasn’t able to come in because of her morning sickness, so I switched shifts with her,” Steve’s mom continues.

“At least you got to work a morning.”

“I know! They’re a lot busier, which is why I usually work nights, but it’s always good to be able to talk to patients a little bit. It’s less fun when they’re asleep.”

Steve snorts.

“Well, I’m gonna let you go, baby. I know you probably have a whole bunch of parties to go to.”

“Just the one.”

“My little party animal,” she laughs, “Be safe, and drink water. Good job tonight. I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom. See you this week.”

“Bye, sweetie.”

“Bye, Mom.”

Steve hangs up and rattles off a text to Peter’s aunt. When she replies with a thumbs up, he starts walking to the parking lot. His notifications on Twitter are positively blowing up; and unlike in his freshman year, they’re mostly supportive instead of horrible. It’s definitely a nice change. Had this been two years ago, he would have had to score about five times to get even a sliver of the positivity he gets now. That’s what some stubble and a three inch growth spurt will do for you, though.

“Hey, Steve,” Sam calls from behind him.

Steve falls back just enough that Sam can catch up to him. He grimaces at the huge bandage of Sam’s cheek.

“I didn’t know they broke the skin,” he says.

“Oh, they most certainly did. It’s cool. Makes me look like a badass.”

“Right,” Steve drawls, which earns him a rough jab in the ribs.

“Fuck you, dude. Just because we aren’t all gifted with that All American Glow doesn’t mean you’re the decider when it comes to badassery. I swear, you score the winning goal one damn time-”

“Many times. More than just one time,” Steve corrects him, waggling his eyebrows.

“Cut the act, Steve, we both know your insides crawl every time you try to play yourself up.”

“Ouch. You know me well.”

“Sure do, man.”

Tony appears on Steve’s left, dragging his duffle bag.

“Where’s Parker,” he asks, scanning the hallway for the kid.

“He went to the van with Rhodes,” Steve says.

Tony nods at that, bringing his duffle bag off the ground so he can pull the strap over his head.

“Good. Really don’t need to get sued because we lost him.”

“You just don’t feel like walking the streets with Missing Child posters,” Sam laughs, “‘Have you seen this boy? He’s very young and talented.’”

“‘What does he look like,’” Steve chimes in, ignoring Tony’s scowl.

“‘A literal angel,’” Sam answers.

“Shut up,” Tony groans.

“Hey, you’re the one who got him all of the Iron Men merch,” Steve points out.

“I’m not his dad,” Tony says.

“You don’t have to be to care about him.”

Sam nods in agreement. Tony just throws his hands up.

“Jesus Christ, I just wanted to make sure the little shit didn’t get kidnapped.”

“He didn’t,” Steve repeats.

“Okay. That’s all,” Tony says before speeding away.

“We’re terrible,” Steve says.

“The worst,” Sam agrees.

The rest of the walk is quiet after Sam puts his earbuds in. Steve goes back to checking Twitter.

“ _@StevenRogers is still captain_ ,” One of the tweets reads, “ _Honestly kind of shocked that they kept him after he started doing all those drugs. I mean, I think it’s cheating, but whatever. Gotta keep the snowflakes happy_.”

Steve stiffens at that, and Sam notices. He takes a look over Steve’s shoulder and sighs.

“Hey, dude, forget about that dumbass. I can almost guarantee that more than half of those replies are arguing with him about it.”

“Shit, I don’t want an argument, though,” Steve sighs.

“Never thought I’d hear that from Steven ‘Fuck You, in 280 Characters’ Grant Rogers, King of Starting Shit on Twitter, but okay.”

“Yeah, but it’s not as simple as just. Getting accused of using steroids. Like, it’s obvious what he’s talking about.”

“Yeah. But what can you do, man?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know they don’t have a return policy on hormone therapy, right?”

“Ugh,” he groans, throwing his head back, “Yes, I’m aware.”

“Not that you’d want one.”

“No,” Steve agrees, running a hand over his jaw, “Not that I’d want one.”

“It doesn’t make you a cheater,” Sam says easily, “It just makes you a little more you.”

Steve doesn’t know if he hates what Sam just said for its cheesiness, or appreciates it for what he means by it.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, dude. Fuck him. I’ll bet he’s into some weird shit, too. Like tentacle porn. Or that loli shit.”

“Oh God,” Steve groans, crossing himself, “Please don’t ever mention lolicon ever again.”

“Shit’s nasty,” Sam agrees, bringing an arm up over Steve’s shoulder.

“Right? It’s awful. It’s actually fucking disgusting.”

“So is the- aw fuck, what’s it called? For the boys?”

“It’s- okay, let me look up anime terms.”

Steve takes his phone back out and opens up Google.

“It’s shotacon-” Steve looks closer at the screen, “Oh my God, they have toddlercon.”

“TODDLERCON?” Sam screeches.

“Yes, actually. I feel like I should be burning my phone right now.”

“Oh my God,” Sam groans, face in his hands, “What happened to the way anime used to be? I used to watch Dragon Ball Z every saturday. It was wholesome.”

“Didn’t the first part of the Dragon Ball series basically fetishize a teenager?”

“I was a kid! I wasn’t reading that!”

Steve snickers.

“Get off that page, I’m grossed out,” Sam groans.

“We can watch some not horrible anime later,” Steve promises.

“Okay, can we watch Oshiete! Galko Chan?”

“Isn’t that also about a hyper sexualized teenage girl?”

  
“No, no, it’s actually about the subversion of anime tropes and could even be considered a feminist piece of animated work.”

“Good God,” Steve sighs, opening the door at the end of the hallway, “Fine, we can watch your anime.”

“Nice.”

“Boys,” Sharon calls when Steve opens the doors, “Hurry it up.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve says as they hurry to the van.

Tony has already commandeered the front seat, and flashes an incredibly inappropriate finger when Steve walks by. From the back seat Peter cackles.

“Tony,” Sam snaps, “Watch it, we have a kid in the back.”

“I’m twelve,” Peter argues.

“Yeah, you heard him,” Sam says, “Put your hand down, dude.”

Steve throws his duffle bag in the back before going over to the passenger side and slipping in next to Peter. Sam follows soon after, waiting for Steve to move just enough for him to buckle himself in.

“Are we still going to Jones’,” Peter asks.

“Yeah, lil dude,” Rhodes calls from the front seat, “As soon as Sharon gets in her car we’ll go.”

“Sharon’s here?” Peter loudly exclaims, whipping his head around.

“Oh my God, don’t worry,” Tony gripes, “You’ll get to see your girlfriend in a minute. You’re stuck with us for now.”

“He’s just excited, Tony, Jesus,” Rhodes sighs.

“Sorry,” Tony says, holding his hands up, “I didn’t mean to sound shitty-”

“Language,” Steve reminds him.

“Fu- frick, sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Stark, you didn’t make me feel bad,” Peter pipes up.

Steve smiles down at Peter and ruffles his hair. When he looks in the rearview mirror, he can see Tony’s eyes crinkling.

Steve wasn’t joking when he said Tony would go nuts looking for Peter if he disappeared; the guy would probably be at the library printing as many Missing Child posters as he could carry.

“And you can curse,” Peter continues, “I say ‘fuck’ all the time.”

“Hey,” the team says in unison.

“Watch your fucking language.”

“Tony, shut up.”

* * *

  
Peter is going to delve into a food coma if Steve doesn’t stop him.

“Alright, guy, pump the breaks or you’ll get sick.”

“Can I have one more slice,” Peter asks around a mouthful of cheese.

“Are you gonna puke it up?”

“Ew, no.”

“Fine, go for it.”

Peter finishes up the pizza on his plate before diving in for the same slice Tony’s reaching for. The man groans and puts his hand back down, letting Peter take it.

“Okay, I don’t wanna give this kid body issues,” Steve hears him whisper to Rhodes, “But are we positive he should be eating more pizza?”

“Let the kid have the damn slice, Tony,” Rhodes sighs back.

Peter is showing Sharon pictures of the Lego set he’s currently building with his friend. She nods along as he explains that they lost one of the pieces, but it was okay because his friend found it under the couch cushions.

“So now we can shoot the lasers out of it,” Peter finishes.

“Oh, like the little lego pieces,” Sharon asks.

“Well, kind of. I got some of those LED lights and put them into the clear laser piece so it looks real,” Peter explains, swiping to a video of the lasers in action, “But we had to make sure that they could still shoot.”

He hands his phone to Sharon. Steve and Sam slide in so that they can watch too. In the background Steve can hear Peter and his friend whispering. One of them says, ‘Okay, go,’ before the lasers go flying for several feet before hitting a wall. Sharon whistles.

“Nice work, Pete.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “That’s impressive.”

“Thank you,” Peter beams, taking his phone back. “I’m gonna show Mr. Stark.”

“You do that,” Steve says, pushing his chair back so Peter can get out.

Steve looks over as Peter runs up to Tony and Rhodes, phone out. Tony rests his chin on his hand and watches the screen. He asks questions occasionally, nodding when Peter answers.

“That kid is so smart,” Steve says when he turns back to Sam and Sharon.

“He really is. Has he shown you that little robot he made,” Sharon asks.

“Yeah, he did. It’s insane. I wasn’t doing shit like that when I was his age,” Sam says.

‘Yeah, Sam was watching Dragon Ball Z Kai,” Steve offers.

“I told you that in confidence, Rogers.”

“Sam,” Sharon says, placing her hand on his, “You have an Attack on Titan keychain on your bag. There is no confidence with you and your love for anime.”

“Steve watches it too,” Sam says.

“Watching Pokemon when you’re ten doesn’t count,” Steve argues.

“It most certainly does. And don’t pretend we didn’t binge watch Ouran High School Host Club our first week of school.”

“Sam,” Steve groans, “You’re still a weeb.”

“Yeah, okay, but I’m not the only one, Rogers. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I hear you loud and clear, Sam.”

Rhodes is patting Peter on the shoulder right now while he and Tony congratulate him. Tony looks over at Steve.

“So, it’s eight thirty. We should probably pay and head out.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Steve agrees, stacking his plate on Sam’s in an attempt to make it easier for the staff.

“Are we meeting his aunt somewhere, or are we dropping him off?”

“Aunt May said that you guys can drop me off at her work,” Peter says, pulling his backpack on, “Unless you guys want to bring me to your party.”

“Hell no,” Tony responds, ignoring the cries from half of the team, “You gotta be home in half an hour. Let’s go.”

Peter groans and follows the team out, leaving Tony and Steve to pay. Steve goes for his wallet, only to be cut off by Tony.

“C’mon, Tony-”

“No. If my dad’s gonna yell at me about being responsible and whatever the fuck,” Tony gripes, swiping his card, “Then he’s gotta be willing to put some money into it.”

Steve winces, letting Tony take the receipt and sign.

“Do you need me to figure out the tip,” Steve asks.

“Oh, please do, God knows I’m not the boy genius of the group,” Tony replies.

 _Jesus,_ Steve thinks, _Why’s he gotta be such an asshole?_

As soon as he thinks that, he feels incredibly guilty.

“Alright, sheesh,” Steve says, trying to play his tone off as breezy as he backs in the direction of the door.

“Let’s hurry. We’ve got tub juice to make,” Tony says, pulling on his jacket.

“I hate tub juice. It tastes awful,” Steve groans.

“You don’t have to drink it, then?”

Steve rolls his eyes as he opens the door. He bends at the waist and waves his arm.

“My liege,” he drawls.

“I’m gonna kick your ass right here,” Tony states, walking past him, “In front of God and the entire hockey team.”

Steve flips off his back as covertly as possible, barely bringing his hand back down before Tony can turn around and see him. Judging from the way that the man squints at him, however, Steve gets the feeling that Tony could have guessed what he was doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my pal ollie and i made this AU with sweat, blood, tears, and a healthy disregard for the facts of hockey. check them out on AO3 @phandalin. Thanks for making this little monster with me and for beta reading everything while you were writing your own Stucky content. (,:
> 
> thank you for reading! i'll try to keep updates frequent. i may post bucky's chapter in the next few days. however, if i do, please don't mistake me for a Writing Monster. this chapter alone took up most of my week, and the rest of the chapters probably will to. 
> 
> find me on tumblr at levijamesn, or on twitter @levi_76_99. bye!


	2. Detour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to Oliver (phandalin) for being a real one and making this au with me/ betaing the chapters and reassuring me that they don't suck. go read their stucky content, i love it a lot. 
> 
> also, ey, this isn't smut. but it's like... steamy? or maybe i'm just an absolute virgin and anything is hot to me.

In the grand scheme of every possible way James’ life could have taken a turn, sitting in a cramped Uber with three other hockey players is decidedly not on the list of directions James had imagined. 

 

Hockey, sure. He didn’t get into college on good looks alone. It was semi-religious hockey practice, straight A’s, and a slightly unhealthy disregard for his own health and mental wellbeing that got him where he was today. James also hadn’t planned on having a huge piece of experimental tech strapped to his shoulder, but hey, it was how his cookie crumbled. 

 

Currently, James has his earbuds in and his head ducked, measuring his breaths until they’re even. Thor has a protective arm stretched over James’ lap, masked as a means of holding Bruce’s hand across the space James is taking up. 

 

Natasha makes small talk with the driver, eyes occasionally flashing back at James. A text hits his phone, and when he looks down, he sees it’s from Nat.

 

_ “You okay?” _

 

James sends her a thumbs up and tucks his phone back in between his knees. Thor knocks his knee against James’ until he looks at him. The guy winks back, a stupid grin plastered across his face.

 

“I still can’t believe we’re going to some random hockey team’s party,” Bruce grouses from next to James, running a thumb over Thor’s knuckles.

 

“I know Clint. He told us to come,” Natasha says.

 

“I’ve never met him,” Bruce objects, “I have a thesis to work on.”

 

“And you’ll have five more thesis’ to work on in due time,” Natasha replies easily.

 

“I’m excited,” Thor pipes up, smiling. 

 

James would be excited, maybe, if he didn’t have to ride this fucking PT Cruiser shaped death trap. He looks back at his phone; the map app shows that they have five more minutes until the reach the hockey frat.

 

“See, Bruce? Thor’s excited,” Nat points out, letting her bob out of its ponytail. 

 

Bruce throws his head back and groans. 

 

“Stop acting so put out,” Nat says.

 

“I didn’t want to come,” Bruce says.

 

“I’m sure you and Thor will end up commandeering the couch to make out eventually,” James says, giving up on listening to music, “So, there’s that.”

 

Thor lets out a booming laugh at that, slapping his knee. Bruce seems less impressed. When they roll to a stop and the driver puts the car in park, Bruce quickly unbuckles himself and opens the door. James slides out after him and onto the sidewalk, shutting the door behind them. Nat gets out as well, waiting for Thor to finish thanking the driver so that they can go inside. 

 

“I don’t know why we’re going to a rival hockey frat’s kegger,” James says.

 

“It’s not all hockey players,” Nat replies, shaking her hair out one last time, “And, again, we were invited.”

 

“I’m with Barnes,” Bruce says, reaching for Thor’s hand and giving it a squeeze, “This seems like a bad idea.”

 

“Nonsense,” Thor declares, bringing his fist up and heading up the driveway, “Any friend of Natasha’s is a friend of mine!”

 

James grumbles at that but follows, letting Natasha slip besides him. She slowly wraps an arm around his right one, steps careful. 

 

“Yeah,” she agrees, voice higher, “Thor has the partying spirit.”

 

“You know not to drink anything unattended or already open, right,” James asks. 

 

“That goes double for you, Barnes,” Natasha replies, “I don’t need to bring the hammer down on anyone tonight.” 

 

“Alright, alright,” James sighs, “I am definitely going to get drunk, though.”

 

“Fine by me. We Uber-ed here.”

 

“And,” James continues, making sure not to trip onto the porch, “I am most certainly going to end up making out with someone.”

 

“My congrats to the lucky guy,” she grins.

 

When they enter the house, Thor takes their jackets and follows a stranger’s directions to the coat room. Natasha is scanning the crowd for her friend, eyes darting over the sea of people. James can feel his skin crawling already, the thump of the speakers slamming into him. Natasha puts a hand on his metal arm.

 

“If you want to go home, come find me, okay?”

 

“Will do, Nat,” he mumbles, hand already twitching for his headphones. 

 

“And I know we kid, but please don’t actually have a drunken hookup, alright?”

 

“Why else would I come to this party,” James jokes.

 

Natasha fixes her eyes on him, squinting.

 

“I’m serious,” she says, “Be kind to yourself.”

 

James wants something snappy to throw back at her, but he can’t do it. Because, chances are, no matter how much he promises Natasha, he’s gonna leave this party like he leaves every party; smashed, sore, and numb. If anything, the added discomfort of being at some rival hockey team’s party practically doubles his chances of getting absolutely fucked up. 

 

“You too, Nat,” he mumbles, heading for what he is sure is the kitchen. 

 

James is a big guy. Not hulking, necessarily, but large and intimidating enough to clear a path. He makes it to the drinks and lets out a low whistle. A sign on the table promises tub juice in the downstairs bathroom, and cites the blue solo cups as being for water. When James looks over, he recognizes that the blue cups towers over the dwindling stack of red ones. He takes a red one and fills it up with whatever bottle he closes his hand around. 

 

He wishes he wasn’t so hell bent on disappointing people. But sometimes, you just have to not have any sense of responsibility for anyone. Especially not yourself.

* * *

 

 

James is on the back porch passing a blunt around a circle. His eyes are trained on the red solo cup he’s batting at with his hands, watching it rock back and forth. Someone taps his shoulder, and he looks up to see the blunt being waved directly in his face. He takes a hit and passes it along. 

 

“This Stark kid,” one of the partygoers laughs, “He knows how to throw a fucking kegger.” 

 

“Yeah, well, anyone with that kind of trust fund could,” another guy mumbles, snatching up the blunt and taking two quick hits, much to the chagrin of the group. He passes it along, still mumbling to himself. 

 

James falls onto his back at that, staring up at the porch roof. He should be home right now, he thinks, watching Iron Chef with Nat and working on his World History 302 homework. Really, it’s nothing short of a miracle that he’s been able to maintain his grades like he has, given his less savory life choices.

 

Whatever. He’s here instead. Distantly, he tells himself that he should go find Natasha in a little bit. At the very least, he can hang by her and be quiet with company.

 

James used to be the life of the party, constantly going and going and going. And while that sounds exhausting to him now, he misses it. At the most, he misses that kind of ease. That ability to just be. 

 

He stumbles to his feet and shuffles back into the kitchen via the back sliding door. The room is bustling at this point, and James dodges the drinks table he was originally shooting for. He has to pee anyways. 

 

It takes some hunting, but several minutes of stumbling later, James finds the upstairs bathroom. He locks the door behind him and goes to pull his pants down just as the shower curtain flies back.

 

“JESUS,” James yelps, falling into the bathroom counter. 

 

“Sorry, sorry,” the guy in the tub hollers back, grabbing wildly at the floor for a few moments before managing to crawl out.

 

James uses his left hand to keep himself propped against the counter and his right hand to grab the fabric of his shirt. The bathtub guy manages to get on his feet, waving his hands besides him the entire time. He looks at James, blue eyes wide and cheeks turning pink. 

 

_ Shit _ , James thinks,  _ He’s pretty cute _ . 

 

“Sorry, I didn’t think anyone would come up here,” he apologizes.

 

“Neither did I,” James says, involuntarily raking his eyes over the guy’s chest. Damn. 

 

“‘M Steve,” he says, arms twitching at his sides.

 

“James,” James responds, making himself look Steve in the eyes.

 

“You having a good time?” Steve asks, moving to lean against the wall. When his spacial awareness evidently betrays him, he crashes into it instead and ends up sliding down onto the floor, waving James off when he tries to help him up.

 

“Yeah,” James says, “You?”

 

“It’s a party,” Steve laughs, “I don’t know, my friends are having a good time.”

 

“I wasn’t planning on going out either,” James says, sitting down across from Steve, “So like, hey. Same hat.” 

 

“Same hat,” Steve snickers, “My friend Sam loves that stupid meme.” 

 

“He sounds cool,” James says, resting his head on the sink. 

 

“He’s alright,” Steve says, shutting his eyes, “He’s probably in the living room right now, trying to make sure nobody dies from alcohol poisoning.”

 

“How admirable.”

 

“Very. And I’m up here. Hiding in a bathtub.” His eyes flash open. “Sorry again, about that. I thought everyone would stay in the downstairs bathroom.”

 

“You’re fine. It’s really loud down there. I just wanted five seconds of peace.”

 

“Whoops.” 

 

Steve reaches into the tub and pulls out a beer bottle. He pops the cap off in one go and offers it to James. And, well, James isn’t in any position to deny a hot guy’s booze. So he takes it and lets Steve get another one for himself. 

 

“Thanks,” James says, taking a swig. 

 

“No problem,” Steve says before shotgunning an impressive amount of the bottle in a matter of seconds. 

 

James takes another, more reasonable, sip of his beer. Not three hours ago, he was doing the same thing as Steve, if not with a little more coughing and spluttering. It’s weird meeting someone who can match his drinking pace. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised; Steve seems like the typical college football star who can drink anyone under the table. 

 

“Do you go here?” Steve asks after a minute.

 

“Mmm,” James stalls as he finishes swallowing, “No. My friend knows a guy on this team, though, and we got invited.”

 

“Who?”

 

“The friend or the guy?”

 

“The guy.”

 

“Fuck, I think he’s- His name is Clint? Clint… Clint something or something.”

 

“Clint Barton,” Steve says, snapping his fingers, “Yeah, I know him. He’s a buddy of mine.”

 

“Nice.” 

 

James finishes his beer and throws it into the trashcan, impressed when it makes it in without breaking against the wall. Steve pulls out two more beers and passes one to James, who opens this one with his teeth. He hopes it looks hot on the off chance that Steve is into dudes. 

 

“What’re you majoring in?” Steve asks, kicking his leg out so he foot is at James’ hip. 

 

“Engineering,” James replies, absentmindedly patting Steve’s leg with his hand, “You?”

 

“I’m a,” Steve squints, like he needs to think about it, “Double major. Art and Nursing.”

 

It’s a little unexpected, given that Steve looks like he’d be majoring in Criminal Justice, or Sport’s Medicine, or whatever it is that blonde frat guys major in. But it’s also kind of cool.

 

“Nice, that’s cool.”

 

“Yeah, I like it. I want to go into the military after school as a medic, but you have to have a bachelors to be considered an RN.”

 

James nods his head. 

 

“Yeah, I believe it.”

  
“What kind of engineering do you want to go into? Biomedical, computer, y’know, y’know.”

 

“Mechanical, actually. I like making shit.” 

 

“Cool, cool.” 

 

Steve tugs at his pant leg, screwing his lips tight and staring at the floor.

 

“So,” he continues, “You like parties?”

 

“I mean,” James drawls, taking another sip, “Yeah, I do. I usually spend the first half thinking about all the shit I should probably be working on instead, but after a minute I’m good, y’know.”

 

“After you’ve gotten drunk,” Steve guesses.

 

“After I’ve gotten drunk,” James confirms. 

 

“And a little high.”

 

“And after I’ve made out with some random guy I’ll never see again,” James says before he can think better of it.

 

Steve chuckles softly, and for a split second James thinks he’s about to get hate-crimed in the face. But he realizes, with a soft exhale, that Steve’s blushing now, smiling to himself. Which, hey. That’s kind of cute. Really cute. James smiles, and when Steve looks up, his smile widens. 

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, “That’ll do it.” 

 

Steve leans in a little bit, and James moves so that they’re closer. They stare at each other in silence, and it’s a little weird, but James isn’t complaining about being able to stare. Steve licks his lips a little bit, and James gulps. 

 

“You’ve got a nice face,” he tells Steve.

 

“Thanks,” Steve says, still staring. 

 

Of course, the moment gets ruined when someone knocks on the door. By the time Steve tells them that the bathroom is full, the spell is broken, and now James is just embarrassed. He stumbles to his feet, and Steve follows, grabbing another beer while he gets up. Which, Jesus Christ, where is he pulling these from?

 

“Oh, shit,” Steve says, rubbing his face with the end of the bottle, “You probably need to use the- yeah.”

 

“Yeah, I do,” James agrees, still staring at Steve. Seriously. Whatever sport he’s in, and he is definitely in a sport, it has him fucking shredded. 

 

“Well, I will,” Steve says, backing up and blindly grabbing for the door knob, “Let you get to that.”

 

“Thanks. For the beer, too,” James says. 

 

“Yeah, of course. Maybe I’ll see you later,” Steve says as he opens the door and backs through it, “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Okay,” Steve says as he closes the door, face peeking through the crack, “Okay, bye.”

 

“Bye,” James snorts, letting Steve shut the door. 

 

He does what he needs to do and flushes, fumbling with his zipper as he stumbles over to the sink. He manages to wash both of his hands with soap and water (waterproof prosthetics, baby) without accidentally throwing the soap bottle or breaking anything. He wipes his hands on his jeans and looks in the mirror. 

 

He looks half dead. Which, okay, isn’t new, but it’s still kind of shocking for James. He runs a hand over his cheek, wondering when it lost its glow, or when he let his facial hair grow past a light stubble. His hair hangs limply around his face, and he’s boasting some righteous under eye bags. 

 

He feels like shit, and he looks like shit. And he wishes he was drunker than he is right now. Maybe if he was drunker, he would have gone for it and actually tried to flirt with that Steve guy. Maybe, if he didn’t look like an extra on The Walking Dead, Steve wouldn’t have minded if he did. 

 

James goes to the door, which he neglected to lock, and opens it. Steve is standing in front of the door, arms swinging. He steps forward. 

 

“Hey,” he says, face inches from James’.

 

“Hey,” James says, opening the door so Steve can come back in. 

 

“It’s later,” Steve informs him, shutting the door.

 

“So it is,” James agrees, letting Steve come closer. 

 

Steve hesitantly places a hand on James hip, and James places his own hand over it, bringing the other up to scrape the nape of Steve’s neck. Steve leans in, breath ghosting over James’ face and smelling of mint and beer. James brings his flesh hand away from Steve’s neck and up to his cheek, and Steve turns into it, breathing in for a second before moving closer until their lips are almost touching. Steve opens his eyes for a beat, looking at James for any signs of protest. 

 

James responds by gripping his chin and closing the gap. 

 

Immediately, Steve’s lips part, James’ mouth opening with them. The kiss deepens, their teeth clicking against the others so aggressively that James winces. Steve pulls off at that and breathes out an apology. James shushes him and leans back in, frantically scrabbling to lock the bathroom door before bringing his hand back to Steve’s face. Steve’s hand goes to James’ hair, gently but firmly tugging at the strands until James is gasping. He pulls off of Steve’s mouth to take a deep breath and nip at his lip before going to Steve’s impossibly harsh jaw, pressing kisses as he makes his way down, stopping at his adam’s apple. He can feel Steve’s pulse, pumping violently beneath his lips. James moves to his neck and sucks, dragging out a low moan from Steve. 

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Steve hisses, pulling his neck away so he can recapture James’ lips against his own. 

 

James’ knees buckle slightly, and Steve drags them onto the floor, laying James down as carefully as possible without breaking the kiss. He slings his leg over James’, boxing him in against the floor. James takes the opportunity to wrap his other leg around Steve’s while pulling the man down until their chests are flush against the other’s. Steve’s elbow gives out at that, and he crashes into James, yelping when their noses bump. 

 

“Sorry,” he gasps into James’ mouth.

 

“S’okay,” James says, pulling him back in. Their hips start to slowly rock in time with the other’s, and for a moment James wonders if he’s going to come away from this with bruises and/or messy jeans. 

 

“Fair warning,” Steve says, “I’m not going to be able to feel that.”

 

“I definitely will,” James whispers, kissing Steve’s face while he talks.

 

“So, like, don’t get offended when I don’t get noticeably hard.”

 

James is distantly aware that Steve is trying to broach a sensitive issue before things get too hot. 

 

“I think,” James breathes, arms winding around Steve’s back, “I know what you’re talking about, and it’s okay.” 

 

“Okay. I promise, though, I would definitely be hard. Like, in a sense I probably already am,” Steve blathers, punctuating with soft bites at James’ jaw. 

 

“Oh my God,” James laughs, “I believe you.”

 

“Okay,” Steve says, grinding down harder, “Alright.” 

 

He cradles James’ head and pulls him up, and they kiss. It’s messy, and wet, and warm, and James loves it. 

 

He just really, really fucking loves it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr at levijamesn. if you wanna talk to me about LGP, or Stucky in general, hit me up on there! have a good one, and thanks for reading.


	3. If You Got It, Flaunt It

Clint gasps so loudly when Steve walks into their room that he almost thinks there’s an ax murderer behind him.

 

“Jesus, what,” Steve barks, whipping his head over his shoulder.

 

“Your neck,” Clint shouts back, walking over and poking him in the jugular, “Did you get mauled?”

 

Steve is 100% sober all of a sudden. He runs a hand over his neck and realizes that it has basically been bitten raw.

 

“Shit,” Steve mutters.

 

“Someone got lucky,” Clint says.

 

“Who got lucky,” Sam asks from the doorway.

 

“No one got lucky,” Steve rushes.

 

“Steve got lucky,” Clint says over him.

 

“Steve got lucky?” Sam asks, annoyingly surprised, “Damn, good job, Steve.”

 

“I didn’t get lucky.”

 

“Turn around.”

 

Steve does, and Sam lets out a low whistle.

 

“Wow. You got real lucky.”

 

Steve fumbles for his phone and opens the camera. Sure enough, his neck and jaw is covered in hickies of various sizes and intensities. He gives one a poke, and almost yelps.

 

“Nice,” Sam says.

 

“Who’s the lucky guy? Or gal. Or individual,” Clint pipes up.

 

“Uhm, his name was-“ Steve trails off, because it’s just occurred to him that he was literally too drunk to remember the guy’s name.

 

“You can’t remember,” Sam says, amazed.

 

“No, I remember,” Steve lies, “It started with a J. Or a B.”

 

“It started with a J,” Sam clarifies, “Or a B.”

 

“Yes. A J or a B.”

 

“Those letters do sound awful similar,” Clint agrees.

 

“Okay, there are too many people in here. Someone’s gonna have to leave,” Steve snaps.

 

“I’ll do it,” Clint says as he slides off the mattress and grabs at his shower kit, “I gotta hose off and ask my doctor how much a kidney actually needs to function for it to be healthy.”

 

“Pretty sure it should be fully functional,” Sam says as Clint breezes by.

 

“We’re gonna shoot for fifty percent functional,” Clint says, “I had a lot of tub juice.”

 

“Oh God, I hate tub juice,” Steve moans, “Why did I drink so much God damned tub juice?”

 

“I don’t know, man,” Sam says, revealing a laptop from behind his back, “I tried getting you to stop last night, but then you just grabbed a crate of beer and ran away like a drunk hobgoblin, and I had to help Scott get Rhodey off of the mantle. By the way; have you ever seen two drunk men try to help a way drunker man down from a high place? It’s a sight to behold.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Steve says, shaking his head, “How have we not burned this house down yet?”

 

“I don’t have a clue. Rhodes and Tony are trying to get Stephen down from the roof as we speak.”

 

“No way.”

 

“Way.”

 

“Should we help?”

 

“I was thinking we could watch Oshiete Galko Chan and pretend it’s a normal weekend,” Sam admits, slowly opening the laptop, “But, y’know, if you want to go be a good person or whatever.”

 

“I’m gonna go get the ladder out of the garage. Then, I’m going to get Stephen down. And _then_ I’m going to get coffee. Then we can watch your anime.”

 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Sam protests, sitting down on Steve’s bed.

 

Steve gives him a look.

 

“Don’t give me that look,” Sam says, “Just go get Strange off of our roof before we have to Uber to the emergency room.”

 

“Alright, damn. Don’t start without me.”

 

“See? You’re a closet weeb!”

 

“I have shame, Sam,” Steve states as he pulls on his shoes, “That’s the difference.”

 

“I have shame, Sam,” Sam mimics, “I’ve never binge watched all of Bleach in the space of three days, Sam. I didn’t have an anime keychain when I was in high school, Sam.”

 

“I told you that in confidence,” Steve hisses

 

“You’re a hypocrite and I have no idea how you sleep at night,” Sam hisses back.

 

“I’m leaving,” Steve says, “Before Stephen falls off the roof.”

 

They hear a soft thump on the ceiling, and Sam looks up.

 

“Ugh. Yeah, go do that,” Sam says.

 

Steve walks out and down the stairs right outside his door. The living room is in various states of disrepair, but ultimately Steve decides that if nothing is visibly broken, it isn’t that bad. He looks into the kitchen and finds Pepper wearing a large tshirt.

 

“Hey, Pep,” Steve greets.

 

“Hey, Steve,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee. On closer inspection, Steve realizes that she’s wearing one of Tony’s tshirts. While the shirt is baggy, its sleeves almost going to Pepper’s elbow, it’s short on her, stopping just under her belly button.

 

“Nice shirt,” he laughs.

 

“Thanks. You may even get to see Tony in my crop top.”

 

“Oh, nice.”

 

“So, I’m assuming you know that there’s a hockey player on your roof.”

 

“I do. I was kind of hoping that we could just leave him up there, though.”

 

“I don’t think that that’s a good strategy,” she admits, “But you’re also the only one who we can trust to get him down, so I guess you can decide what we do with him.”

 

Steve goes to the garage door.

 

“I guess I’ll go get the ladder.”

 

“They don’t already have a ladder?” Pepper exclaims, looking out the kitchen window, “Dear God, they’re stupid.”

 

Steve locates the ladder and carries it back through the kitchen and out the front door. Scott, Rhodey, and Tony are already on the lawn, staring up at the roof. Steve looks up and, sure enough, Stephen is up on the roof, spread eagle and hungover.

 

“So, none of you thought to get a ladder?”

 

“I did,” Tony says, taking a sip of his coffee, “But I didn’t feel like going up there.”

 

“Yeah, me neither,” Rhodes agrees.

 

“I just got here,” Scott says, bleary eyed.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Steve sighs as he kicks the ladder out, “One of you hold the ladder still.”

 

Rhodey takes hold of the ladder while Steve climbs. When he gets to the top, he almost thinks Strange is asleep.

 

“Hey, Stephen,” he says, jostling his foot.

 

“Hm,” he hums, not opening his eyes.

 

“Let’s get down.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

Steve descends the ladder just enough for Stephen to get on as well, and they both climb down, Steve having to catch the other when he misses the last two steps and falls.

 

“Woah, okay, big guy.”

 

Stephen moves to the grass.

 

“Hey, man,” Scott says, dropping down next to him, “Go get some sleep on the couch.”

 

Stephen mutters something illegible into the grass. Scott looks up.

 

“We may need to carry him inside,” he admits.

 

Tony takes another sip of his coffee. Steve sighs and helps Scott get Stephen on his feet.  Rhodes hurries ahead of them to open the front door enough for them to drag him into the house, Tony following while finishing his coffee.

 

They manage to get Stephen, albeit none too gracefully. Pepper watches from the kitchen, brow furrowed.

 

“Tony, come on, you couldn’t help them even a little bit?”

 

“I had coffee,” Tony argues.

 

Pepper shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose, but ultimately offers no rebuttal. Tony joins her at the counter, dipping his coffee mug in the sink water and kissing her cheek when he turns around. A cell phone goes off, and Tony freezes. Pepper’s mouth forms a harsh line as she watches Tony take his phone out and gulp. She places a careful hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs her off and answers the call, heading for the front door.

 

“Hey, dad,” Tony says, voice seeping forced calm.

 

Even after Tony takes the call outside, the room remains eerily still. Rhodes is holding his breath, Pepper is staring sadly at the now shut front door, and Steve feels like he just got a puck to the throat. Scott is the first to say something.

 

“Shit.”

 

“Yeah,” Rhodes agrees, voice shaking, “Tony’ll be okay, though. He’s, uhm- He’s used to it.”

 

Pepper shuts her eyes and exhales, leaning back into the counter. Her hands come up behind her to grip it’s edge, and Steve can see her knuckles going white from the sheer force of her hold. He looks out the front window and sees Tony pacing on the porch, one hand on his phone, the other tucked under his arm. His jaw is stiff, and his eyes droopy. He looks back at Steve, and they stare at each other for a minute before they both look away.

* * *

 

About thirty minutes later, Steve gets a text from Sam while waiting in line at Starbucks.

 

_Okay, I’m starting to realize that you meant you were Going Out for coffee._

 

Before Steve can respond, another message pops up.

 

_Get me a caramel frap, you Judas._

 

Steve gets to the cashier and orders. The cashier is startlingly calm for someone in the middle of an afternoon rush, casually tucking a strand of hair back behind her pierced ear as her fingers fly over the register screen. Steve pays and steps back. When he looks down at his phone again he sees that Sam has been tweeting about 1) Riley having The Best Devilman Crybaby Cosplay Ever, and 2) what a snake Steve is for not telling him he was going to Starbucks. He rattles off something witty (“Sam Wilson is more Extra than the brand of gum send tweet”) and continues his casual scroll through his feed.

 

For a minute, he wonders if he could find the guy from last night on Twitter. Everyone has a Twitter. He doesn’t know much about him, sure, but he has a few facts.

 

One. He didn’t go to their school. It didn’t narrow down the search by much, but it gave him something of a starting point.

 

Two. His name started with a J or a B. Also a little unhelpful, but it was still a lead.

 

Three. He had the single most soulful eyes Steve had ever seen and they made him want to barf up rainbows. Unfortunately, not useful for the Twitter search engine. Unless the B in his name stood for ‘Beautiful Eyes.’

 

Four. He was majoring in mechanical engineering. Okay, maybe Steve doesn’t have a whole lot in the way of useful and searchable facts about this guy.

 

It’s a challenge, for sure. But Steve likes challenges. All he needs is a list of male baby names and a couple hours.

 

Before he can delve headfirst into his investigation, however, his coffee is on the counter and his name is being called. He hurries over and grabs the coffees and a couple straws, which he throws into his backpack, then he rushes out the door. He can find the guy later.

* * *

 

“You aren’t even watching,” Sam complains, gesticulating wildly at his laptop, “Galko is literally curing a guy of his depression by moving his bangs out of his eyes!”

 

“I have an Anatomy exam in three days, you gotta give me a minute,” Steve gripes back, flipping through his flashcards.

 

Sam groans and mashes his face into Steve’s Target brand sheets. Steve looks up at the screen, registers what’s going on, then looks back down at his cards.

 

“Okay, the foot is pointed straight. That isn’t hyper flexion- or is it?”

 

“Ugh,” Sam groans, slamming his face on the mattress, “Come the fuck on.”

 

“Shut up. And it’s planar flexion. I knew that.”

 

“I hate you. I hate watching anime with you. I hate looking at you.”

 

“Your words cut deep, Sam.”

 

“I hate being in the same room as you.”

 

“In that case, I’ll just be taking my caramel frappucino back,” Steve says, reaching for the half full cup on his bedside table.

 

“Touch that coffee and I’ll ‘just be taking’ your arm.”

 

Steve puts his hand back down and looks at the computer.

 

“Well, she sure is styling his hair,” Steve agrees, sipping his own coffee.

 

“Maybe if you watched the show,” Sam muses, “You’d actually know what the context is and what this says about Galko as a character.”

 

“Okay, I’m paying attention,” Steve says as his phone starts ringing. Sam looks at him like he just stabbed him in the back.

 

“Wow,” Sam responds.

 

“Sorry,” Steve sighs, picking his phone up. “Shit. It’s Doctor Erskine.”

 

“Hey, our favorite Stanley Tucci lookalike,” Sam quips.

 

“Hang on.” Steve answers the call. “Hello?”

 

“Steven,” Doctor Erskine says, “How are you?”

 

“I’m good, you?”

 

“Very good. What are you doing?”

 

“I’m studying,” Steve says, shushing Sam when he stage whispers ‘anime.’

 

“Good, very good.”

 

“What’s up?”

 

“Oh, not very much. I wanted to make sure you were still coming in for your physical?”

 

“Yes, sir, I am.”

 

“Lovely. We’re going to conduct some tests and what not. Make you run on a treadmill for longer than necessary, put freezing medical equipment on your back, ask you to say ‘aaaah’ and what have you.”

 

“Sounds good.”

 

“I think that Mr. Stark will be making an appearance as well.”

 

Steve kind of starts at that.

 

“Okay,” he says, “Does Tony know?”

 

“I don’t know. Should he be made aware if not?”

 

“I- I’ll ask him if he knows.”

 

“Alright. I’ll see you at four, Steven.”

 

“Okay, thank you, Doctor. I’ll see you later.”

 

Steve hangs up, and Sam looks up at him.

 

“Everything okay?”

 

Steve scrubs a hand over his face and sighs.

 

“Yeah, I just have a physical today, and Tony’s dad is coming.”

 

“Oh shit,” Sam says, sitting up straight, “Does Tony know he’s coming?”

 

“I don’t know,” Steve groans, “Maybe that was why he called him earlier today.”

 

“He called him?”

 

“Yeah, when I went out to get coffee. I don’t know what they were talking about, but it could have been that.”

 

“What if it wasn’t, though? I mean, he could have been calling just to shit on him for buying a metric fuck ton of plastic kazoos or something. He’s done it before.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Steve admits. He crawls over Sam despite the man’s protests and gets off of his bed, “I’m gonna go talk to him real quick.”

 

“Can we please finish episode one first?” Sam groans.

 

“In a minute.”

 

Steve walks down the hall to Tony’s room. The door is open, and Tony is at his desk, hands flitting over something. A tablet sits upright next to him, a monotone voice begging Tony to eat something that hasn’t been dipped into a jar of peanut butter. Steve knocks on the door frame. Tony doesn’t hear it. He knocks again. Still nothing.

 

“Tony,” Steve says, and Tony jolts up, cursing when his knee collides with the desk.

 

“What is it?” Tony hisses, rubbing his knee.

 

“Did your dad tell you he’s coming down today?”

 

Tony whips around at that, blinking at Steve. His eyes are wide and his mouth is a straight line. He swallows thickly.

 

“No. Why?”

 

“Apparently he’s coming to my physical today.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I’m currently a walking pharmaceutical experiment that he’s funding?”

 

“No, dumbass,” Tony snaps, “Why is he- Is he coming here?”

 

Steve would be shitty back, but Tony seems beyond himself with horror. His eyes search the room, as if looking for something. He looks back over at the project on his desk as if it’s a piece of incriminating evidence, and he grips his desk.

 

“I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if you knew, though, and I wanted to make sure?”

 

“Why?” Tony asks for the third time.

 

 _Because,_ Steve thinks, _You look like you’re about to keel over and pass out just because your father might even be in the same city as you._

 

“I figured you might want to know. Jesus, Tony.”

 

“He never- fine, okay. Thank you or whatever the fuck.”

 

Tony gets up and starts bustling around the room, picking up trash and rearranging clothes on the ground. It’s not cleaning, really; it’s more pushing junk around. The only thing he’s actually putting away are different little projects; some octopus robot he made after seeing a similar one on the internet, a small device with half its wires exposed, and the hunk of metal he was working on when Steve came in.

 

“Okay, well, as long as you know,” Steve intones.

 

“Yeah, I know. Bye.”

 

Steve wants to tell Tony to breathe. But he knows how far telling Tony Stark to calm down will actually go. So instead he sighs and walks away. If Tony is trying to make him regret being helpful, he’s doing a great job.

 

He shoos Sam out of his room so he can get dressed for his appointment. He doesn’t have to wear anything specific, but he doesn’t want to wear their change of clothes for the actual exercise part of his physical. He learned not to do that his sophomore year; the clothes they had ready were tight fitting, and Steve wasn’t allowed to wear a binder for that half of the exam. Erskine had pulled him aside afterwards and told him he was free to wear whatever he liked to the physicals from then on.

 

_“It’s not professional of them to stare,” Erskine had said, placing a hand on Steve’s shoulder, “But if they’re going to do it anyways, you might as well make it as difficult as possible for them to do so stealthily.”_

 

Steve had taken grim satisfaction in wearing baggy shirts and compression sports bras from there on out.

 

He wears whatever he wants now. He paid good money to have pecs, and he’s gonna flaunt them, dammit. The swelling has gone way down, and the added muscle makes his chest prominent, but flat. There’s nothing weird or off about it.

 

Which was why it was startling when that guy the other night was staring at him. It makes Steve wonder if he’d have a problem with it now. Just because he didn’t care while he was drunk doesn’t mean he won’t care when he sees Steve again.

 

If he sees Steve again.

 

Steve runs his fingers back over his neck. The bites set off a dull buzz, less tender than they were before as an overwhelming sense of inadequacy floods him. He is suddenly aware of how big some parts of him are, and how small others are. In his mind, Steve is cartoonish and bloated, like the bad fan art of trans guys that he saw all the time on Tumblr when he was younger.

 

The guy, J or B, had seemed nice. Hadn’t flinched when Steve mentioned it. He’d stayed there, curled around him like a wire, holding onto him and kissing him. There had been this urgency; this want, maybe even need, that emanated from him to never let Steve go. He only let go when someone knocked on the door and he had groaned and told Steve that it was his friend. That he had to go. He flashed Steve a dopey, content grin before he left. He didn’t look like he regretted it.

 

Steve sways between the idea of seeing the guy again, and the idea of rejection. When he looks over at the wall mirror, he sees himself. No matter how far out he puffs his chest or how wide he makes his stance, he picks at every little wrong thing that he sees; scars, the slight curve of his hips, his hands that never grew quite as broad as he has.

 

It sucks to realize that he may be a drunk guy’s exception, and a sober man’s regret. It sucks to do your absolute best and still have that not be enough for random people on the internet. It sucks to walk two miles in a New York winter because you can’t take your shirt off in front of your teammates.

 

Steve doesn’t want everything to suck, really. It just kind of does.


	4. Cash or Credit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out the Patriots are just as invested in Bucky's love life as the Iron Men are in Steve's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Writing is hard, you see. 
> 
> Also, this is probably a little late to the party, but if you have issues with people getting freaky while they're drunk, this whole fic kind of hinges on that. I'll try to be more on the ball about warnings from now on.

James slams his head down on the table with a groan. 

 

“If you break that table, you pay for it,” Nat calls from the counter as she stacks cups.

 

James brings his head back down on it. 

 

“I’m hungover,” he announces into the table.

 

“I can tell,” Nat assures him.

 

“I need more coffee. And a nap.”

 

“You just woke up. Why don’t you call off from work if you feel so shitty?”

 

“No,” James says, sitting up, “I can’t call off.”

 

“Then stop complaining. You’ll be fine, just drink some water.”

 

“Ew.”

 

“Maria, can you take him water so I can actually restock everything?”

 

Nat’s coworker nods and fills up a cup for James and brings it out. He takes it and thanks her, and she waves before hurrying back.

 

“Thanks, Maria,” He says.

 

“No problem,” she yells back, busying herself with the pastry case. 

 

“She’s nice,” James tells Nat.

 

“She is. Off topic, but have you considered getting a haircut?”

 

“Nope. I’ve got the whole manbun thing going.”

 

Nat stares pointedly at him.

 

“No, you have a whole depression thing going.”

 

James takes a sip of his water. 

 

A customer comes in after that and orders. Nat takes over, giving James a moment of peace to look at his phone. He starts a mindless round of Candy Crush that he botches just as Nat is sliding the customer their drink. James shoves his phone back into his pocket and drains his cup of water. 

 

“How’s it been today?” He asks when he fills his water cup.

 

“It’s been fine,” Nat says, going back to her cleaning. “It’s way slower than it usually is.”   
  


“Probably because everyone on campus is hungover. Party school status.”

 

“You’re here,” She points out. 

 

“I wanted free coffee.”

 

“This is off topic,” Nat says, “But I’m kind of annoyed that you ran off to make out with some guy last night. I was going to introduce you and Clint.”

 

“I don’t need you to play matchmaker.”   
  


“I wasn’t planning on it. Clint’s a cool dude and you two may even get along.”

 

“Didn’t he try setting an arrow on fire so he could shoot it into a bonfire?”

 

“You both love making bad choices. That sounds like the start of a solid friendship.”

 

James bites back a comment at that and gathers up his things. 

 

“I’m going back to the house,” He announces.

 

“I thought you needed more coffee?”

 

“I can just make some. Or Bruce can make it for me.”

 

“Bruce is working on his thesis today.”

 

“Oh yeah,” James hums, scratching his jaw, “I forgot. See ya, Nat.”

  
“Be careful,” She reminds him in lieu of a goodbye, eyes trained on the blender she’s cleaning, “I’ll see you after work tonight.”

 

“I’ll see you then,” he says, waving at Maria before leaving.

 

It’s nice outside; it doesn’t go above 70 degrees this time of year, and James has never taken an excuse to wear a long sleeve shirt for granted. He zips his hoodie up and tucks his left hand into his jean pocket while he uses his right hand to wrangle his earbuds on. The Starbucks that Nat works at is a decent walk away from the school, but their fraternity is on the edge of it, serving as a soft marker for where the town itself stops and the campus starts. It’s about a fifteen minute walk on its fastest route, but that would require James walking next to a busy road. 

 

He takes the long way. It requires walking up and down a steep hill and cutting through some trees, but he’ll take an extra ten minutes of walking over having a panic attack. 

 

The trail he takes is better anyways. It’s usually pretty empty when he walks it, with a beaten straight dirt path and walls of greenery besides and over it. If he had to compare it to anything, he’d point to the Muir Woods in California. These trees aren’t nearly as big or as dense, but they’re just as beautiful, and they almost seem to swallow sound; all James ever hears when he walks through them are leaves rustling and the occasional bird call. 

 

His head is still pounding, but listening to music and walking around helps. 

 

He didn’t go out for months after the car accident; at first, because he was in the hospital for PT and getting monitored, then because he was convinced that if he went outside he was going to get hurt again. James remembers sitting on his bed, back against the wall at all times. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t taste food, he couldn’t go for more than thirty minutes without realizing that he was holding his breath at least once. 

 

It wasn’t just the accident that had him that way, but it had broken something inside of him. It was like this rubber band that had been screwing up and tightening for years had finally twisted once more than it could handle, and suddenly everything snapped. Nothing was safe; not cars, not parks, not even people. His poor mother started going grey right in front of him, and it was his fault. 

 

_ It was a cereal bowl that did it for him.  _

 

_ He had been trying to do it one handed; he hadn’t gotten his new arm yet. His mother watched from across the kitchen, smiling encouragingly while maintaining a safe distance, like James was a baby deer about to sprint at the slightest hint of danger. Opening the cereal box itself had almost ended in Captain Crunch exploding onto the counter, but he’d managed to pour it out into his bowl, as well as the milk with minimal spillage.  _

 

_ He had gotten a spoon into the bowl, and all was well until he picked the bowl up and the spoon fell out, bringing the bowl down with it. When the hard plastic hit linoleum, James had stood there for a second, staring at his breakfast in silence.  _

 

_ Then, he slid down onto the ground and cried.  _

 

_ It was one of those shaky cries he had, the ones he had finally pinned as panic attacks when he got one his junior year of high school. It wasn’t that bad. It shouldn’t have been that bad. Nothing had broken, he could make a new bowl of cereal, no one was mad except for him. But he kept crying. When that wasn’t enough, he slammed his right hand on the ground repeatedly, the pain sharp across his palm with every slap he landed.  _

 

_ It hadn’t just been the cereal. It was everything.  _

 

_ He felt like he could have cried forever. He probably would have, had his mom not walked over. She sat down besides him and gripped his hand tightly in her own while the other hand went to his face, petting his cheeks and hair as she whispered softly. It wasn’t until he looked at her that James realized she was sobbing. When she noticed, she let go of his hand to cover her mouth and push her tears back, but that seemed to make her cry harder. She eventually just pressed her face into his shoulder and wept, still wiping his face and trying to soothe him. The cocktail of emotions that he had, the fear, the rage, the misery, drained out of him while he sat there, numb, on the floor. As his mother comforted him, he realized something.  _

 

_ He couldn’t do this anymore.  _

 

_ So he got up. He grabbed a paper towel. And he cleaned up the cereal, washed the bowl, and  kissed his mother on the cheek before going to the bathroom and taking his first shower in weeks.  _

 

His ears still ring. He still has panic attacks when he hears tires screeching. He isn’t able to ride in a car unless he’s holding Thor’s hand or has Nat rubbing his back. He still relies on Bruce to get his earbuds out and hand them to him while reminding him that it’s okay, he’s okay, that he just needs to watch the Google Map and listen to the music. 

 

But he’s better. Eons better. He’s safe, he’s fine, and everything is good and getting better. The sound of cars and trucks are becoming ambient noises again, and not a sign that he needs to run. 

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t realize that he’s almost home for a second. When he looks up and sees the frat’s symbol peering back at him through the cracks in the treeline, he exhales. 

 

He’s home. He’s okay. 

 

Thor is waiting outside when James opens the back gate. Thor looks up at him and smiles, taking a quick sip from his mug before putting it down and walking over. 

  
“James,” Thor bellows, clapping James on the shoulder so hard that he almost hits the ground, “You’re back!”

 

“Yeah, I visited Nat.”

 

“How was Natasha?” Thor asks, smiling. 

 

“She was fine. It wasn’t super busy. What have you been doing?”

 

“Well,” Thor says, placing his hands on his hips, “I woke up. Then I went for my morning jog. I worked on my classwork. Then I made lunch- there’s some in the fridge for you by the way- and did my laundry. And you?”

 

James woke up at eleven in the morning, stayed in bed for another hour, then put on pants and walked to Starbucks. He managed to knock out one paragraph for his engineering paper before playing Candy Crush. Then he had an anxiety attack on his way back home. 

 

“Oh, you know. Nothing much.”

 

Thor’s smile falters, and James realizes that he’s shaking a little bit. It was all that thinking that he did on the walk back, probably. Too many thoughts, no good way to get them out. He shrugs his shoulders and tries to stay still, but it doesn’t help. 

 

“Would you like a hug?” Thor asks. 

 

“Sure,” James manages before getting swept up in a bone crushing bear hug. 

 

“Did anything happen on your way back home?”

 

“No, I was just thinking.”

 

“About?”

 

“Nothing. Just the- Y’know. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine.”

 

Thor makes a high pitched noise in the back of his throat. James calls it his I’m-dissatisfied-with-that-answer-but-I’m-also-not-going-to-push-it noise. He makes it a lot when they talk to each other. Mostly because James has a habit of sharing some worrisome factoid about his shitty mental health and then refusing to talk about it any further. 

 

At the rate James overshares, Thor is going to end up needing more hugs than he does. 

 

“Okay, I gotta let go now,” James says from where Thor has accidentally smashed his face into his chest.

 

Thor brings his arms back and lets him loose, laughing and apologizing with a lot of ease for a guy who basically just got motorboated. He picks his mug back up and James gets hit with the smell of coffee. 

 

“Would you like some?” Thor asks. 

 

“I’ll just make my own,” James says, accidentally staring down the cup. 

 

“I just made a pot, so there should be enough left over,” Thor says, stepping aside so that James can get inside. 

 

The house is eerily quiet when James walks in except for the soft clicking of computer keys. Venturing into the living room, James sees Bruce at the kitchen table. The space has been completely commandeered by him, stacks of papers and textbooks forming a wall around the perimeter of the table. When James walks over, Bruce doesn’t acknowledge him, instead scanning his laptop screen while blindly grabbing at the open notebook next to him. 

 

“Hey,” James says.

 

Bruce jumps so hard that the entire table lurches. 

 

“Sorry,” Bruce yelps, catching a piece of paper before it falls off, “I didn’t see you.”

 

“It’s okay,” James assures him, scratching his elbow against his side, “You alright?”

 

“I’m fine. I was just really wrapped up in this.” Bruce sniffs, then pauses. “Is that coffee?”

 

“Oh,” James looks into the kitchen, “Yeah, it is. Thor made it. Did you want some?”

 

“That’d be great.”

 

“Okay, I’ll get it for you.”

 

James goes to the kitchen and empties what’s left of the pot into two mugs. He deliberates over how much creamer Bruce may want before sticking the bottle into the crook of his right arm and picking up the two mugs, willing his left hand to close tight around the mug handle. He carries the coffee back to the table and sets Bruce’s coffee and the creamer down. Bruce immediately fills his coffee to the brim, while James drinks his straight. He doesn’t feel like messing with the lid right then. 

 

“Thank you,” Bruce says.

 

“You’re welcome,” James says, taking a deep sip of his coffee.

 

“Do you work today?”

 

“Yeah, at three.”

 

“Need a ride?” Bruce asks.

 

“I can get myself there.”

 

“Okay,” Bruce says, lips pursing, eyes squinting, “Are you sure?”

 

“Yeah. Why?” 

 

“I don’t- Nothing. I don’t know what I was talking about.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah, I’m just all wrapped up in this and,” Bruce waves his hand, “Forget it. I was just talking.” 

 

James clamps his teeth down on the inside of his cheek for a second, trying to get a read on Bruce. His teammate is totally expressionless now, staring at his computer screen. 

 

“Are you sure?” James asks. 

 

“About-” Bruce looks back at him, blinks, then remembers. “Oh, yeah.” 

 

“I was thinking about stuff earlier. If I seem a little off. But I’m fine now.” 

 

Bruce exhales in a soft  _ whoosh _ sound, and nods his head. 

 

“Okay, yeah. That was what I was going to ask about. Sorry, I didn’t want to push it.”

 

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

 

James likes Bruce, he’s just hard to figure out sometimes. He’s a nice dude, a little snarky for sure, but anyone who really knows him can tell that he’s always biting his tongue a little bit. He’ll play himself down, won’t divulge too much, and isn’t always up front with his feelings. It could be his DID; when they all first started living in the house, Bruce was on edge until Hulk took front. Even after the dust settled and nobody treated him differently, he maintained a sort of reservation. If you spend a lot of time with him (or live in his house), you would know that it’s because he doesn’t like making people uncomfortable or anxious around him. 

 

So, he just doesn’t ask the hard questions. Like if James had a panic attack twenty minutes ago. 

 

James sways there for a moment. When he takes a step back, Bruce looks at him again. 

 

“Thanks for bringing me coffee,” Bruce says.

 

“No problem. I think I’m going to go shower.”

 

“Thor left you some of the salad he made for lunch,” Bruce offers. 

 

“Yeah, he told me,” James says, pushing one of the pens on the table, “I’ll probably just get ready for work.” 

 

“Okay,” Bruce says, flashing him a thumbs up as he goes back to his laptop, “Don’t forget to eat.”

 

James walks away, left hand shoved into the depths of his jeans pocket. He needs to eat, and shower, and finish his essay. That’s how he does things now; in steps. One, then two, then three, and on and on until a new thing to do pops up. 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Darcy calls over the book cart, “What’s up with that bite mark on your jaw?”

 

James blows a piece of hair out of his eyes as he stacks books in the crook of his left arm. .

 

“I went to a party.”

 

“Was there a jaguar or something at that party?”

 

“I made out with a guy,” James responds, walking towards a shelf. 

 

“Did you use protection?”

 

“We didn’t have sex.”

 

“Color me shocked,” Darcy says, sounding genuinely surprised. 

 

It’s a fair statement. James kind of has a reputation for ill considered hookups when he gets drunk. His wallet is basically a mini Condoms R Us, and he gets tested monthly (mostly at Thor’s insistence). He once woke up on the kitchen floor with his pants off and the school mascot passed out next to him. Thankfully, that had happened at the house, and Natasha had taken special care to bury the whole thing before it could get back to anyone on campus. 

 

“I don’t think he was feeling it. He had that Gay After Five Beers kind of thing going on.” 

 

“Aw,” Darcy says, sliding a book into the stacks and frowning, “That sucks.”

 

“Hey, I’m not complaining. He was hot.” 

 

“Do you know who he is?”

 

“I have no idea. He goes to UTA and I think he is in a sport.”

 

“Ooo,” Darcy intones, “Athlete power couple.” 

 

“We were pretty drunk. I don’t think we’re gonna become a power couple.” 

 

“Maybe,” Darcy starts, snapping her fingers, “He’s on a hockey team too! And one day, you two are going to be playing against each other! And then you’re both going to have this moment of ‘oh no, that guy I made out with is my OPPONENT?’ But you still play, and at the end of the game he runs over and hands you his number, and then there’s this whole Star Crossed Lovers thing going on-”

 

“Darcy,” James cuts in, trying to be gentle, “I think you are an extremely talented storyteller, but you realize that this isn’t a fanfiction.”

 

“That sounds exactly like a meta comment you would read in a fanfiction,” Darcy points out. 

 

“That’s fair,” James admits, shoving a reference book into its series. 

 

“You should try to find him!”

 

“I don’t plan on doing that. Again, I got intense ‘Never Makes Out With Dudes’ vibes from him. And I don’t think I could find him. Even if I wanted to.” 

 

“He goes to UTA? And he seems sporty?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Then look up their sports teams! He has to be on there somewhere.”

 

“That’s an idea,” James says, taking more books off of the cart. 

 

“That you’re totally going to do?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?” Darcy groans. 

 

“Because it’s unnecessary. And I don’t wanna be that guy who fools around with someone at a party one time and is suddenly planning their wedding and how many children they’re gonna have.” 

 

“But you don’t have to do that! You can just meet up with him again and go on a date! Maybe do more than just make out!” 

 

“I don’t want to find him again,” James repeats, and something about his tone must sound sharp, because Darcy is quiet. 

 

They shelve books in silence for a moment, Darcy moving her pursed lips around before looking at him.

 

“You’re allowed to want things, dude.” 

 

James grunts. Leave it to Darcy to take a conversation and bring it all back to James and his feelings of inadequacy. It isn’t that he thinks he’s unworthy of love or something. He just doesn’t want to be a creep who can’t take a hint. He’s always been that way. 

 

“I mean, I guess I don’t know how it went. He could have been the world’s worst kisser.” 

 

“He was fine. I just don’t want to bug him.” 

 

“What makes you think that finding him would bug him?”

 

“I don’t know. He might think it’s a little creepy that I tracked him down via the internet.”

 

“Maybe, yeah,” Darcy agrees, fidgeting with a book, “But he may be doing the exact same thing, y’know?”

 

“Yeah. I can’t imagine why he would.”

 

He really can’t. James isn’t a slouch or anything, but he also figures most people have a similar attitude towards hookups that he does; it happened once, it was fun, don’t talk about it ever again because that just makes everything awkward. 

 

“I mean,” Darcy side eyes him and grins, “You’re kind of a snack, dude.” 

 

James snorts. 

 

“Hey, don’t laugh! You are! Do you know how many people dream of dating some sexy engineering major with a sensitive side and an intense passion for Animal Crossing New Leaf? You’re what the kids call a catch.” 

 

“Thanks, Darcy.”

 

“You work in a library. It’s like you’re the standard love interest in a YA novel.”

 

“I’ll make sure to put that on my resume.” 

 

“I say, Go Get It.” 

 

“It being?”

 

“That dick.” 

 

James stares at Darcy. She stares back, waggling her eyebrows at him. James sighs when she jokingly shakes her hips a little bit. 

 

“Finish shelving, Darcy.” 

 

“Never deny yourself the opportunity to get some booty! That’s my motto!”

 

“You never go on dates,” James points out, “You once told a guy that you couldn’t go to the movies with him because you had to update your fanfiction.”   
  


“You love my fanfiction! You got mad because AO3 wouldn’t let you leave more than one kudo per piece!” 

 

“It’s nonsense, and the people should be allowed to show their favorite writers support without doing it on anon.” 

 

“I appreciate your support, my dude. But this isn’t about me. This is about you.” 

 

“I’m going to go get more books,” James says, walking away. “Because we’re at work. And that’s what we do.” 

 

“You can’t run from my sick wisdom forever, James!”

 

James ignores her and makes his way back to the counter. His left arm groans when he loads it up with the entire Harry Potter series, but he ignores it. His anxiety over it coming loose from the socket in his shoulder has subsided, and now he just uses it like a regular arm. A regular arm with a semi limited range of motion, but a regular arm nonetheless. 

 

“Hey.”

 

James looks over his shoulder to find Nat with a paper bag in one hand and a tray of coffee in the other. 

 

“Hey. Any of that for me?”

 

“Yeah. One of them is for Darcy.”

 

“I heard my name,” Darcy announces, appearing from the stacks. “Hey, Natasha.”

 

“Hey, stranger. I haven’t seen you around.” Nat holds out the tray. “Here. I wrote your name on one.”

 

“Oh, sweet.” Darcy pulls her coffee out of the tray. “Thank you.” 

 

“No problem. James mentioned you’d be working tonight and I thought I’d swing by.” 

 

Nat sets the tray down to open up the paper bag.  

 

“I didn’t really know what you’d want, so I just got two plain croissants and a chocolate one.”

 

“Chocolate,” Darcy says immediately, and Nat gives it over. 

 

She takes out the two plain croissants and James grabs one, nodding his head towards the space behind the counter. One of the perks of working the library is that they’re allowed to have food, provided it’s a safe distance from the books. Nat and Darcy head back, Nat picking the drink tray up and carrying it around. James joins them and commandeers a chair, leaving Darcy and Nat to bicker over who gets the other chair. 

 

“I work here,” Darcy argues. 

 

“I just brought you coffee after working an eight hour shift. And I was on my feet for seven and a half hours of that shift.” 

 

Darcy sighs and sits on the ground. James pops his coffee out of the tray and takes a careful sip to check the temperature.

 

“How was work?” James asks Nat.

 

She shrugs. 

 

“It was fine. It picked up a lot after you left. We had some guy come in who almost ripped Maria’s head off because we don’t have PSL’s yet.”

 

“Wow,” Darcy pipes up from the floor, “What a dick.”

 

“Yeah, she just calmed him down and pushed on. She’s really good at keeping her cool with customers.” 

 

“Good for her,” Darcy says.

 

“I honestly would have kicked him out if he was being loud enough,” James admits, sipping his latte. 

 

“I know you would,” Nat reassures him with a grin. 

 

Someone walks in the library and James greets them. They wave back at him and disappear in the fiction stacks. James looks back at Darcy and Nat.

 

“When do you guys play next?” Darcy asks. 

 

“Saturday. We’re gonna play the Iron Men,” Nat says. 

 

“Oh yeah! James was telling me about that guy he hooked up with at their frat party or whatever.”

 

“Yeah. Did he tell you he made out with him on a bathroom floor?”

 

“No, he did not. I was mostly trying to convince him to look the guy up.”

 

“Alright, alright, we get it,” James cuts in. 

 

Nat shrugs. She stretches her back out until James hears a sharp pop in the air. 

 

“I don’t know, maybe you should. Maybe he’ll come to the game or something.”

 

“I said he may be on the Iron Men,” Darcy offers, brushing a crumb away from her mouth. 

 

“Or that,” Nat agrees. 

 

“I said he probably isn’t,” James insists.

 

“I will bet you twenty bucks that you will see him on the ice Saturday,” Darcy challenges. 

 

“Fine. Easiest twenty bucks I’ll have ever made.” 

 

Nat turns to James.

 

“What does he look like?”

 

“Uhm,” James looks away, tightening his hold on the coffee cup, “He had blonde hair. He was, like, really buff. Like superhero buff. He had nice-”

 

“Lips?”

 

“Hands. I think he said he was double majoring in art and nursing.”

 

James looks back at Nat, who is starting intently at him. 

 

“Did he say if he knew a Clint Barton?”

 

“Oh, I mean, yeah. He did. He said they were friends.”

 

“Was his name Steve?”

 

“I honestly can’t remember, but that sounds right.” 

 

“Was he transgender?”

 

James groans, throwing his head back so he can stare at the ceiling.

 

“Nat, you said that speculating someone’s gender identity is shitty.”

 

“It is. Did he say if he’s trans?”

 

“I mean, he didn’t  _ say  _ it.”

 

“But he is?”

 

“I think so. Why?”

 

Nat leans back in her chair and looks down at Darcy, who is hanging onto her every word. Her mouth is wide open as she stares back at Nat, coffee cup abandoned on the floor besides her. Nat lets out a breathless laugh and looks at James. 

 

“Uh,” Nat laughs, “Yeah, I think I know who you’re talking about. I think I met him before, actually.”

 

“Oh. Oh?”

 

“Yeah. At that LGBT athletes summit last semester. He introduced himself and we talked about the school making me play on the men’s hockey team. He said it was bullshit because his school let him play on the men’s hockey team no problem.” 

 

Darcy looks over at James, still gawking at them both.

 

“What are you getting at, Nat?” James asks.

 

Nat pulls her phone out and types into it for a second, then flips it around and hands it to James. He immediately recognizes Nat, with her arm wrapped around a guy’s shoulder. James freezes.

 

“Is that your guy?” Nat asks.

 

James just nods. 

 

“Yeah, I thought it was.” She says, taking her phone back. 

 

“Wait, is he-”

 

“Steve Rogers, co captain of the Iron Men’s Hockey Team. He made headlines when he was the first trans guy to get the title at their school.”

 

James looks at Darcy, who looks as surprised as James feels. James whips his head back to Nat.

 

“So you’re saying that he’s going to be playing us on Saturday?”

 

Nat puts her phone back in her pocket and looks at Darcy. 

 

“So,” Nat asks, “Should James pay you in cash or check?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phandalin beta-ed this! They're my best bud and they also write Avengers fanfiction, so y'all should. ;-) Yknow. ;-)
> 
> Thank you for your patience! My pal is beta-ing this, but for the most part LGP is,,, pretty rough, and I am 100% pantsing it. I think it shows. Whoops. 
> 
> My tumblr is @levijamesn and my twitter is @levi_76_99 (in case you want actual updates on how long it will be until an update.)
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter! Mwah.


	5. Beta Reader Needed (not a bad author’s note)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’M SORRY THAT THIS ISN’T AN UPDATE

_*this chapter is getting deleted straight to hell as soon as the next chapter is ready*_

 

Hello! It’s me, Levi. That guy who started a Stucky Hockey AU, updated regularly for an admirable two months, and then fucked off for another two months. I promise I am not done with LGP! However, I have hit a road block. Or two. Maybe three. IDK this isn’t drafted or anything and it’s six in the morning. 

1\. I want to edit what I have so far of LGP. But that’s pretty easy to do, and is more a pain in the ass than an actual roadblock, so we’re going to move on. 

 

2\. I’ve been busy with other fandom stuff! And life stuff! I’m currently organizing a fanzine, and I started a new job this week (I finally get to be a hot library assistant. It’s what every little boy dreams of.) Again, not a huge roadblock. 

 

3\. So, I like hockey. I like the hot dudes. I like watching people get fucking slam dunked into walls. I like everything about it. The problem is that I am an absolute nerd (please read 2. if you need proof of this fact) who has absolutely zero hockey knowledge. So when I got to chapter five, and I had to write hockey stuff, I realized that I!!! Had no clue how to write it!

 

Basically, I’ve decided to bite the bullet and start looking for a beta reader who actually understands hockey terminology. I’m hoping for someone who can stick it out for the whole fic, and who is willing to be Honest about how a fic reads. 

 

If you are interested in beta-ing, please message me on Tumblr. I am now at levijamesn (not grump-ass). 

 

Thank you for your patience, and I hope I can update soon! 

 

\- Levi

**Author's Note:**

> I like Stucky. I like college aus. I like hockey. I like making stucky college hockey aus with my friends. What can I say, I’m a simple man with simple needs.
> 
> Kudos and Comments keep this hot mess going. Thank you for reading!


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